


the letter delivered, the year decembered

by brynnmclean (ilfirin_estel)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mostly Book!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilfirin_estel/pseuds/brynnmclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She was to protect Rivendell’s borders and keep safe what part of the road to Mithlond she could, but she looked at her own unfaded skin and tasted helplessness like blood in her mouth.  Her fingertips felt cold, but it was not from the breath of winter.  Perhaps tea and the company of a dear friend would soothe her.</i>
</p><p>Arwen resolved to keep busy while Aragorn was away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the letter delivered, the year decembered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [necrotype](https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/gifts).



> My darling Shay prompted me on [tumblr](http://brynnmclean.tumblr.com/post/99259610599/hey-kate-for-a-writing-prompt-how-about-this-bilbo): "how about this: Bilbo and Arwen talk about kings and loss in Rivendell. (shhhh, [Sansukh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528/chapters/1637607) is still hurting me) <333" and I was happy to oblige.
> 
> I owe a thank you for inspiration to [determamfidd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/determamfidd/pseuds/determamfidd), particularly for the end of the [31st chapter of Sansukh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528/chapters/5258849), which is a glorious, gorgeous, gigantic fic that every Tolkien fan should read.
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's [The Long and Short of It](http://sporkpress.com/2_1/Pieces/Siken.htm) partly because there's a theme of long-distance love, partly because I love this line: "But you are my nomad and I love you sideways daily. Sideways because I have to beam my love in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you," and also partly because of the last line, which is "The letter delivered, the year decembered, the river swum." The Fellowship left Rivendell on December 25, I head-canon that Aragorn and Arwen like to write each other collections of letters, and there are important rivers in their lives (Bruinen and Anduin)... yeah. 
> 
> The truth is I'm just rolling with it.
> 
> And I wanted to write about snow.

It snowed the day after the Fellowship departed from Rivendell. Arwen watched the first flakes fall in the faint morning light and prayed that Estel would remember to wear gloves. He wouldn’t— she knew this, pictured him absently flexing his chilled pink hands as he trailed behind his companions. If she were at his side, she would take one of his hands in hers, watch him smile ruefully as she’d rub warmth back into his fingers.

 _Gloves feel clumsy,_ he’d tell her, or perhaps, _they’re just one more thing I’d lose,_ or even, _it’s not nearly cold enough to warrant them, Arwen._

He’d climb Caradhras in a full blizzard and _still_ not wear gloves, her Estel. The silly, stubborn man.

She wished she could have gone with him. The knot of worry in her stomach would not have disappeared, of course, but she would have been able to watch his back.

But she was not Lúthien. She would not follow him against her father’s will. Swords were needed here in Imladris and that, too, was important. She would protect the borders of this home, their first home, and pray that one day their hopes would be realized and they would face the Dawn of Men together.

She pressed her fingertips against the cool stone of her windowsill and allowed herself a moment to remember him safe and warm against her back, his arms around her waist and his lips gentle against her ear, promises wrapped within one word repeated over and over: _love, love, love._

Arwen watched snow fall into the valley and listened to the Bruinen sing.

Then she turned from her window and went about her work.

-

Bilbo caught her coming back from a patrol and insisted on making her tea. She didn’t protest, grateful for the offer because in spite of her exhaustion, she was sure she would find little rest.

There had been a party of orcs near the East Road, but that had not troubled Arwen as much as seeing evidence of fading in a group of elves saddling horses for their journey to the Havens. The diminished light of their fëar was not something solved with sword or bow. Arwen had spotted translucency in the hands of friends she passed in the halls and it shook her to the core.

She was to protect Rivendell’s borders and keep safe what part of the road to Mithlond she could, but she looked at her own unfaded skin and tasted helplessness like blood in her mouth.

Her fingertips felt cold, but it was not from the breath of winter. Perhaps tea and the company of a dear friend would soothe her.

Bilbo came to her quarters with his box of tea clutched in hands that were wrinkled and trembling faintly. An elleth named Alassiel carried the kettle and teapot, her smile fond as the old hobbit gallantly held the door open for her.

“We decided to come to you, for once!” Bilbo declared, his eyes upon Arwen stern enough that she knew he would not appreciate any comments about how she would have been happy to have spared him the trouble of coming her way. He and Alassiel set their burdens down upon the little table near the hearth and then Alassiel departed, saying she was needed elsewhere. 

“Sit, sit,” Bilbo said, flapping a hand at Arwen when she tried to help him lift the kettle. “There’s strength and energy in these old bones still, my lady. And besides, _I_ wasn’t the one riding about and waving a sword for hours on end today!”

“If you insist, mellon nîn,” Arwen said, watching him carefully hang the kettle over the fire and schooling her features to hide her relief when he managed it. She did, however, pull out his chair and fetch him the blanket draped across the foot of her bed. If he could dote on her, she could certainly return the favor.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, pulling the blanket tight over his shoulders then opening his tea box and measuring out the leaves. They sat together in companionable silence, waiting for the water to boil. She watched the insistent snow fall outside her windowpane and shivered at the thought of it burying the bodies of the orcs she and her brothers had slain.

“How are you holding up?” Bilbo finally asked her as he poured water into the teapot. 

She took her tea cup and held it between her palms even though it was empty still. “I am…” She wanted to say, _I am fine,_ but the final word would not come. A sigh escaped her. 

Bilbo’s gaze was knowing. He reached across the table and patted her arm. “I worry too,” he said. His hands were so soft, skin paper-thin with age. 

Arwen swallowed against the grief caught in her throat. “All our hopes are with both Frodo and Estel…”

“But we are not idle, you and I,” Bilbo said, “and that is a good thing. Keeping busy keeps the worries at bay, at least for a little while! And all will come out right, I am sure of it, both Frodo and Aragorn are stubborn enough to see it through.”

That confidence, that optimism— it always pulled a smile to Arwen’s face. “How is your book writing coming along?”

Bilbo’s face brightened at the topic, the task that filled his own daylit hours. “Oh, it’s coming along indeed! I’ll have to remember to leave some room for Frodo to write about his own journey when he returns! Yes, yes, the Red Book shall have great tales in it, I think… I’ve even added the Song of Eärendil Aragorn and I wrote together, though I will have you know the Dúnadan had very little to add to my work…”

Arwen laughed heartily, and they discussed the piece while their tea brewed. When Bilbo finally declared the tea strong enough for his taste, he poured it for both of them and his gaze fell upon the stack of journals on her desk. “Are you doing some writing of your own, Lady Undómiel?”

Heat bloomed across Arwen’s cheeks and she hid a small smile in her teacup. “No… well, yes. Of a sort. Aragorn and I have a tradition since it is difficult to send him letters. He is never in one place for long.” She reached over and took the top journal from the stack and rubbed her thumb along the leather spine. “I keep a journal for him and he keeps one for me. When we are in the same place, we exchange them. This is the most recent one he gave me.”

“That is a wonderful idea,” Bilbo said, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled back at her. But then a strange, wistful expression crossed over his face and he looked down at his tea.

In the silence that fell between them, Arwen let go of the journal and took one of Bilbo’s weathered hands in hers. “Is there something you wish to speak of, mellon nîn?”

Bilbo glanced at her with rueful grief. “Ah, it is nothing to worry about, my lady, only… only there was a time when I wrote letters of my own to someone.” He squeezed her hand. “He could not write me from the grave, though I’m sure he is stubborn enough to try if he wished! But I do not mean to be melancholy, only to say that I know something of letter writing and missing someone far away.”

“I am sorry,” Arwen told him, but Bilbo waved the words away. “What did you do with the letters?”

“Kept them. They’re in a stack somewhere, I never read them, but I could not bring myself to throw them away.” He laughed suddenly. “I’m sure Frodo found them at one point, he was always curious about the things in my study. He was probably very surprised to learn that his bachelor of an uncle wrote to someone long dead.”

“You must have loved him very much,” Arwen said gently, suspecting who the letters were addressed to, but not voicing it out of respect for Bilbo’s privacy.

“I did. Still do.”

The fire crackled and the snow fell a little heavier outside. Hands still clasped on the table, Arwen and Bilbo both watched the snow piling on the windowsill.

“We have that in common, my dear,” Bilbo finally murmured. “Being in love with kings.”

-

When Bilbo had gone to bed and the fire in her hearth was dying, Arwen opened a blank journal.

 _When it snows in our White City, meleth nîn,_ she wrote, _I will make sure you wear gloves._

Then she closed the book and went about her work. The standard of her king needed to be sewn.

**Author's Note:**

> fëar = plural, Quenya for spirit (singular is fëa)  
> Mithlond = Grey Havens
> 
> The fact that Bilbo had the _audacity_ to write a song about Eärendil in Elrond's home still makes me laugh, just saying.


End file.
